


The Hunter

by triggernometry



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: 'well he's a gross bastard but he's my gross bastard' - buckshot probably, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 15:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16558724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggernometry/pseuds/triggernometry
Summary: Local trapper and part-time monster hunter Buckshot gets a request from the neighbouring serthis town: find whatever's eating our dead, and kill it.





	The Hunter

Buckshot sees the serthis contingent coming up long before they reach her. She stays seated right where she is: leaned up against the forked trunk of an old bonewood tree that took a lightning bolt to it right around the time the Eleven were still getting their business sorted, near as Buckshot could ever tell. The tree provides little in the way of cover, but plenty in the way of support. She comes to this tree to think and unwind.

She's still got the bolt-action on the ground by her leg, of course. She's not a fool.

The serthis travel in a wedge formation: big one at the front, two smaller ones on either side and slightly behind. The big one in the front is visible roughly from the miasma, wearing a hat about as broad as they are and a skein of embroidered cloth pinned into a rough poncho shape that's got about every kind of colour Buckshot's ever thrown up after a good bender.

When the big one gets half again its own length close to her, Buckshot brings the bolt-action's muzzle up and holds it real casual-like in her lap, the business end pointed clearly at the serthis.

“That'll be close enough,” Buckshot says, just loud enough for her voice to carry.

The serthis stop. She can make out the soft susurrus of their language, see the two smaller ones gesticulating in a way she's seen kids trying to get out of a double-dog-dare situation do before. The big one shushes them.

“You are the hunter Buckshot?” the big one calls.

“Might could be,” Buckshot says. “Is it the law askin'?”

The big one makes another, less abrupt gesture and then holds their hands up as if to cup water to their mouth.

“May we speak?” they say.

Buckshot gestures with the nose of the bolt-action. “If it's just you. Leave your friends where they are.”

“Yes,” the big one says. The smaller ones shift uncomfortably, then go still again. The big one slithers forward slowly, still keeping their hands visible. Their face is shadowed by their hat, which is easily as wide as their shoulders: stiff black leather painted with an unfamiliar runic script along the underside of the brim, ornately beaded on the crown in shades of red and green that make Buckshot think of apples. Radioactive apples.

They pause a respectful distance from Buckshot and make a sweeping bow that causes their array of bangles, earrings, and the stack of gold bands at their throat to jangle rhythmically.  
  
“Caullas Vesat,” the serthis says. They touch the brim of their hat in a very practiced, careful way: Caullas has spent a lot of time talking to dragons, if Buckshot had to guess.

“Good day to ya, Caullas,” Buckshot says. “I am indeed Buckshot. What can I do you for?”

“The Rustgills have need of a fine hunter,” Caullas says. “Rachidian says you are the one to hire.”

“Don't y'all got your own hunters?”  
  
“Of course,” the serthis says, inclining their head in a slight nod. “Ours hunt game and chase away pious creatures that come too close. For this task, we need a hunter of monsters.”

“That so.” Buckshot loosens her grip on the bolt-action enough so she can rub at her chin with one hand. “You got monster troubles?”

“Something steals our dead at night. It is not a pious creature. It is” – Caullas makes a gesture Buckshot can't quite follow – “as intelligent as a person.”

“It kill any of y'all?”  
  
Caullas nods. “Two of our hunters are dead, their bones stolen.”  
  
“An' you reckon I can catch it?”  
  
“Kill it,” Caullas amends. “We will pay whatever price required to make it dead.”

Buckshot whistles. “That could be a lot, dependin' on how wily this monster of yours is.”

Caullas gives her a level look. Their eyes are the same colour of their face, two slit-thin pupils in deep gold stippled black and speckled silver. Buckshot's met enough serthis to recognise where the eyes are, and she can tell Caullas is deadly serious.

“I suppose I could come 'round an' have a look,” Buckshot says. “Get a feel for the sitcheation. See if it's in my means.” She sets the bolt-action aside and gets to her feet. “We can talk price after an’ if I take the job. Yeah?” She extends a hand. Caullas does not hesitate; they extend their own, grasp hers firmly, and give it a solid shake.

“Thank you,” Caullas says.

* * *

 

It’s been two weeks since Buckshot took the Rustgill job. She follows the monster’s trail from Sallowhill, the Rustgills' prime settlement, to very nearly within spitting distance of the Gold Dust Table on Rachidian's outskirts.

She's sees little of the monster, despite her best efforts. A glimpse here and there, usually in the no-time unlight hours of twilight, and always gone as soon as it appears. A baited trap picked clean and circled around with sweeping sidewinder-like tracks more than twice her own length. Eyes watching her in the dark.

She rides Rotgut, her Wastebred, to Queen's Rest Cemetery at the beginning of week two. The cemetery's proprietor, Endicott, is away on business in the Flat; it's Sunday, the undertaker's assistant and, near as Buckshot can tell, live-in lifemate, who answers the door. Sunday's a skydancer so reedy and keen-eyed Buckshot could easily be persuaded to believe she's half sparrow and half jackdaw and not a dragon at all. 

  
Buckshot holds her hat to her breast and gives a little bow, because she may live like a wild animal but she _ain't_ one. “Good day to you, ma'am,” she says.

“Good day,” Sunday says slowly, eyeing Buckshot with open curiosity mixed with a little bit of suspicion. They've passed each other in Biskbrill from time to time, maybe passed half a dozen pleasantries with each other in as many years. “Endicott's got business in town.”

“I don't suppose I need to speak with Endicott exactly,” Buckshot says. “Just wanted to let you folks know the Rustgills been dealin' with some kinda graverobbin' creature-or-other an' I've reason to believe it may now be in proximity to your cemetery here.”

Sunday's feathers ruffle. She looks around, alarmed, as if expecting to see some kind of abomination walking around in broad daylight with half a dragon corpse in its mouth right this very second. It could be Buckshot's imagination, but the cracked scales around her face look paler than before.

“You say – grave _robbin'?_ ” she says, regarding Buckshot with an openly horrified expression.

“Yes'm, I'm afraid so.”

“Well, I-- thank you for tellin' us, I suppose?” Sunday seems unsure. She runs a crack-scaled hand over the side of her neck in a nervous gesture. “You huntin' it?”

“Yes, ma'am, that I am.”

“If there's – I don't know we got much that could help, but if there's anything we can do, just say the word,” Sunday says. She swallows, looks uncertain for a minute, then adds: “And thank you. For huntin' it. I hope you catch it without too much trouble.”

Buckshot plants her hat back on her head and tips it in Sunday's direction. “I'll keep y'all posted. Good day, ma'am.”

* * *

 

Top of week three, Buckshot follows the monster as far as the Old Carcosa Place, a half-day's ride from the Gold Dust Table out in the middle of effectively nowhere. The Old Carcosa Place used to be an earthen mound big enough to disturb the horizon line, home to a cult of some description or another – Buckshot never had much dealings with their people, only heard bits and pieces from around the Flat or in Biskbrill.

No one ever really said what caused the mound to implode and the cult to pack up and leave in a big damn hurry. Buckshot's pretty sure some talk in Biskbrill pointed to the Wirerile Shepherds getting a pretty big payday for wiping the place off the map, but – well, that's just talk.

Buckshot comes in slow, guiding Rotgut from the seat of the wagon she's hitched to this time. The wagon's heavy with gear: steel traps and pit spikes, guns heavier than the bolt-action and plenty of ammunition besides. She's even got a harpoon gun she bought cheap in Biskbrill, which has proven as useful for spearing creatures that swim through sand as well as water.

She doesn't let the Wastebred and wagon get too close to the Old Carcosa Place: the land around it is riddled with old tunnels and catacombs that aren't exactly up to code, so to speak, to say nothing of what kind of creatures could've moved in since the cult moved out.

Take the monster she's tracking, for example.

Buckshot spends the remainder of the day feeling out the ground around the Old Carcosa Place, making chickenscratch on a rudimentary map to mark the best routes in, out, and around the area. She finds a section of tunnel that collapsed a long time ago, effectively creating a ready-made pit.  
  
She draws a line to that pit on her map and writes a question mark beside it.

When night comes, she lights no fire, no lamp, no cigarette; she eats her dinner cold straight from the can. She unfurls her bedroll under the wagon and crawls in after it to sleep.

* * *

 

The morning shows the familiar serpentine tracks of her quarry looping irregularly around the wagon. Rotgut's in one piece, unruffled. The tracks snake off back toward the Old Carcosa Place, straight for the main sunken pit.

Buckshot shares her breakfast of dried locusts and hardtack with the Wastebred and stares for a long time at the tracks around the wagon. The Rustgills said the monster's as smart as a person – but they didn't mention it’s as smartassed as one, too.

Week three forms a curious routine: Buckshot goes to sleep under the wagon and wakes up to fresh tracks circled around her, nothing out of place, Rotgut as placid and unbothered as if she were chewing bones in a stable.

It's kinda funny, in a way.

Buckshot spends a day reinforcing the sunken tunnel-pit's walls and filling it with trap spikes. It could be just her imagination, but she definitely feels eyes on her while she works. It doesn't matter if the monster sees her setting up the pit trap: she's got a hunch on how to get that monster to fall for it anyway.

* * *

 

  
She leaves the wagon and most of her gear, takes the bolt-action and Rotgut and rides away from Old Carcosa. She follows game trails spidering through the uncut Wasteland until a smudge on the green-yellow sky catches her eye: bonepickers circling.

Bonepickers are notoriously greedy and ambitious, able to carry off hunks of the carrion they find, if not the whole thing in one go. As fortune would have it, this find is fairly fresh, mostly still intact: a trunker splayed in a sideways running pose in the red dust. Buckshot ties a rope to its rear leg, wraps the other end around Rotgut’s collar, and starts back to the Old Carcosa Place.

Back at the pit-trap, Buckshot dons gloves and sets to taking the trunker apart with a knife and a little elbow grease. It's fresh enough to be a tempting prize, but ripe enough to make the eyes water. Buckshot's had enough practice at this to resist puking at the first good whiff of putrefaction.

She tosses something slick and squishy from the trunker's middle in Rotgut's direction; the Wastebred snaps it up greedily and gulps it down almost without chewing.

“Gross bastard,” Buckshot says, giving the Wastebred a fond smile. Rotgut huffs at her and runs a long red tongue over her sticky muzzle.

Buckshot scatters the trunker's limbs and a few other hunks of it here and there around the pit-trap; the choices pieces she leaves on the trap's false top.

She takes some of the leftovers to the remains of the sunken mound and throws them as close to it as she can reach.

“Wake up, smartass,” she calls. “I know you're hungry in there. Been about a week since you ate anybody's dead grandma, by my count.”

She goes back to the pit-trap and waits. 

* * *

 

She doesn't have to wait long.

The sun's just dipped down below the horizon for the night when the monster comes sliding out of the sunken tunnels of Old Carcosa and starts sniffing around for the hunks of half-rotted trunker she's strewn around.

Buckshot pulls herself up from a sitting position to a crouching one, bolt-action ready in her hands. The monster follows the smell of old blood and old meat and she just about gets a good look at it from  the skyglow leaking down from the miasma above. It's big, snake-like, glowy-eyed. She can hear the sound of it eating as it moves toward the pit-trap, gobbling down half-rotted hunks of meat without much concern for chewing.

“Evenin',” Buckshot says.

The monster regards her with its paired tricklight eyes, snorts, and gulps down more of her offerings. She can see the shine of its teeth, long and sharp. It comes as close as the edge of the pit-trap's false top, then stops. It sniffs at the pit-trap, snorts, and she's sure it's giving her some kind of look.

“Sure,” Buckshot says. “You're too smart for that one, ain't ya?”  
  
The monster starts to withdraw, laboriously slithering backwards before it starts to turn its back to her. She gets a vague impression of wings, of too much hair and too much tail.

She raises the bolt-action and takes aim.

“You just gonna run, huh?” she says, staring at a vague shine of scales between the rifle's sights. The creature stops moving. She fires.

The monster _screams._ It doesn't scream like monsters do, at least not in Buckshot's experience. It sounds more like a person.

Buckshot gets to her feet and holds the rifle ready. The monster turns, pausing almost imperceptibly before one last quip – “You scared or somethin'?” – gets it to lunge at her across the pit-trap.

The false top gives out and the creature nearly – _nearly_ – scrabbles over the edge anyway, but then its own bulk trips it up and it slides backwards into the trap, snarling its fury. The snarling turns to howling as it hits the bottom.

Buckshot unslings the torch from her belt and clicks it on, coming about as close as she dares to the edge of the pit. She didn't really measure it for depth, only kinda sorta eyeballed it and hoped for the best, like she usually does.

The torch beam falls on the writhing mass of monster at the bottom of the pit, pinned around and, in places, _by_ the dense forest of spikes therein.  
  
It takes a little bit for it to sink in: this is a dragon. Or what's left of one.

More specifically, it's an imperial – just bigger than any imperial she's ever known or heard of. She lets the light trail over its endless coils, counting the limbs: only two, not counting the stubby little wings that look more like overgrown arms, she notes with some relief. It's only got one head, too, which is easier to tell because the monster swings its head up and looks right at her with its tricklight eyes and howls at her.

“Hell you think you're yellin' at, you big dumb bastard?” Buckshot says. “'twas _you_ what fell for the dumbest trick in the book.”

She adjusts her grip on the torch in order to pop the bolt on the rifle. The spent shell clatters away into the pit somewhere. She raises the bolt-action and takes aim again, although with much less confidence than before. She came here to shoot a _monster._ There's nobody here to witness otherwise – but _she'll_ know.

The beast in the pit hisses, struggling to get upright against the pull of the spikes sticking up through its flesh. It looks up at her again and opens its mouth.

“ _Ffffuck you_.”

Buckshot lowers the rifle. She'd figured the monster could understand _her_ , but she hadn't much counted on it being able to speak itself. She shines the light at its head and it flinches, snarling.

“You say somethin'?”  
  
It opens its mouth again, and in the beam of light she can make out the ruddy colour of the drool at the corners of its mouth.

“ _Shoot,_ ” the beast says in a gargling hiss. “ _If – you – can.”_

As galling as that is, it's not like she can _now._

Buckshot rests the bolt-action against her shoulder and heads back to the wagon. She stares at the gear she brought and thinks hard about what her next step should be. She's getting paid to kill it; the Rustgills had been pretty clear on how much they wanted this thing dead. It _had_ killed some folks – well, serthis, anyway – and it _had_ stolen bodies out of graves and desecrated the Sallowhill cemetery in general.  
  
It'd also gone a week without food and had no fewer than three opportunities to eat her in the night in the interim, and yet, here she is.

“It's a goddamned dragon,” Buckshot says, looking up to the shadowy outline of Rotgut, dozing lightly by the wagon. The Wastebred offers a soft whicker in reply.

Buckshot puts the bolt-action down on the wagon bed, grabs all the rope she brought and the harpoon, and heads back to the pit-trap. The monster is still down there, of course, pulling gamely against the spikes in its flesh.  
  
“Got a proposition for ya,” Buckshot calls from the top of the pit. The monster stills, but doesn't look up at her. “I'll tie you up real good an' haul you outta there an' you bug right on out of the County an' don't bother another dead grandma so long as you live.”

The beast in the pit lets out a low, long hiss that eventually turns into a chuckle.

“I don't mind tellin' you that's a goddamn _creepy_ sound comin' from you,” Buckshot says mildly. “You in or out?”  
  
It lifts its head to look at her, finally.

“ _In_.”

Buckshot jabs two fingers into her mouth and whistles, and a few minutes later, Rotgut comes cantering up behind her. She's briefly grateful she opted to keep the Wastebred tacked up for this job, even while at rest.

You never know when you need to save a monster's life, apparently.

Buckshot plunges the harpoon into the soil a safe distance from the pit and ties one length of rope to it as tight as she can manage. She gives it a few testing tugs before she uses the rope to skedaddle on down the pit-trap's side, using the spikes closest to the wall as footholds.

This close to it, on its own level, she's struck anew by how _big_ this monster-imperial-whatever-it-is is. 

“Probably shoulda mentioned before I came down here,” Buckshot says, staring into the beast's tricklight eye, “but if you bite me, the deal is _off._ ”

The beast huffs and does a passable attempt at shaking its head with a spike sticking through the side of its neck.

Tying the rest of the rope around the beast's body proves … challenging, to say the least. Buckshot finds herself climbing under, over, and around the coils of the thing's body, occasionally mumbling an apology for the obvious pain her efforts cause it. She's never really hauled a pit-trapped beast out before, and certainly not in one piece.

There's a definite learning curve here, is all.

She clambers back up to the surface with a handful of leads in her free hand, all of them stretching back to some spot or another along the monster's body. She ties most of them as evenly as she can manage around Rotgut's collar; the rest she opts to just hang on to _real tight._

“I won't bullshit you,” Buckshot calls down into the pit, “this is gonna hurt like hell. But it'll _prob_ ably just have to hurt the once. Probably.”

The beast does not reply.

Buckshot gives the Wastebred a pat on the rump to start the pull before she starts yanking hard on the rope herself. Unsurprisingly, the monster-imperial-whatever-it-is is _heavy._ For a while, it doesn't seem like it's working, and then the monster starts howling again and the weight is, slowly, by turns and inches, less resistant to the pull before it becomes surprisingly light.

The beast digs its claws into the dirt and drags itself laboriously out of the pit. It flops facedown onto the soil, breathing raggedly. Buckshot hurries up and unties it from Rotgut's collar and gives her another swat on the back to send her back towards the wagon. If the monster decides to exact some kind of revenge, Buckshot'd prefer to give the Wastebred a head start, at least.

She stands for a bit a distance that only feels safe from the beast, watching its sides heave with exertion in the torchlight beam. She definitely didn't bring enough medical supplies for something _this_ big, she realises, letting the beam travel over the gouges in the creature's hide. The wiry hair of the creature's back glistens redly in the torchlight.

“Hell,” Buckshot says softly.

The monster stirs, hauling itself to its feet with great effort. It props itself up on the knuckle-joints of its stubby wings and regards her with tired eyes.

“Mind if I take my rope back?” Buckshot asks. The beast says nothing, but doesn't recoil or snap at her when she approaches slowly and starts unwinding the rope from around its body. The rope is slick with blood in places, but still functional; she winds it up in a great loop around her arm.  
  
“Guess I'll” – Buckshot eyes the blood dribbling sluggishly down the creature's neck – “get the whiskey.”  
  
She turns her back to the thing and it, surprisingly, doesn't strike. She heads back to the wagon and drops the rope down in a heap beside one of the wheels. Rotgut rumbles softly at her in the dark.

Buckshot is _so_ tired.

She grabs the first-aid kit and the bottle of whiskey and heads back to the pit-trap. Halfway there, she sees the creature dragging itself gracelessly after her.  
  
“Stubborn sonuva, ain't ya,” Buckshot says. The creature snorts. She holds up the whiskey in her left hand and the kit in the right. “Which one you want first?”

The creature inclines its head toward her left hand. She laughs and unscrews the cap, taking a good pull before offering it the bottle. It cranes its neck in a birdlike fashion, mouth open, and she lets a trickle of whiskey flow from the bottle and watches, fascinated, at the beast laps at it with a blood-stained tongue.

When it's satisfied, Buckshot sets the bottle down on the ground and opens the kit. She shines the light into it and stares for a while before sighing.

“I got enough gauze for one wound,” she says. “Pick your favourite.”

The beast shakes its head. “ _Don't_ ,” it says, with what seems to be considerable effort.

Buckshot tilts her head. “Don't what?”

It takes a deep breath and seems to steel itself for the effort of speaking. _“Don't – die,”_ it says.

“You don't die?”

It dips its nose down, then up again. It takes her a minute to register the nod.

“Well, there's your medical bills cut in half,” Buckshot says. “I'll drink to that.” She plucks the bottle up again and takes a swig, and never mind that it tastes a little like blood now.  
  
They head back to the wagon together, slowly. The beast all but collapses when they finally make it, lowering itself laboriously to the ground and folding its forelegs under itself in an almost comically feline fashion. Buckshot puts the whiskey and first-aid kit away and gets a lantern out for some illumination less jarring than the torchlight in her hand.  
  
She plunks the lantern down by the wagon wheel and then lowers herself down beside it, letting her spine rest against the spokes. The beast is in front of and almost beside her, its long body stretching away in a rough _S_ -shape into the darkness beyond the border of the lantern light.

They're quiet a while. She's pretty sure the beast dozes off; its breathing is still troubled, but falls into a tell-tale rhythm suggestive of sleep. She closes her eyes and lets sleep come to her as it may.

* * *

 

It's still dark when she comes to again, albeit less so. The horizon is glowing ashy green-yellow: dawn is on its way. The lantern beside her is out, but not for want of wick or fuel. It's been turned off.

The beast is no longer beside her.

Buckshot gets to her feet and pulls the torch out again, clicks it on and does a quick sweep of the area: the beast is nowhere to be seen. She does find one of its scales on the ground where it slept. She picks it up and turns it over in her fingers. A souvenir.

“Huh,” she says softly. Rotgut rumbles sleepily at her, and she turns to give the Wastebred a pat on the nose before turning to the business of packing her gear up and getting the hell out of Old Carcosa. 

* * *

 

The Rustgills are happy to pay her when she returns; more than what they agreed on, it turns out. Buckshot tries to give Caullas the beast's scale, and they turn it away with a reflexive hiss.  
  
She puts it in the pocket of her vest, tips her hat, and takes her leave of Sallowhill.

She rides Rotgut back to Queen's Rest and lets the undertaker and her lot know: the graverobbing monster is gone, never to trouble the dead again. Sunday looks especially relieved, while Endicott seems only thoughtful, and perhaps a little melancholy. Buckshot doesn't stick around to hash it out. 

* * *

 

She takes a long detour back to Biskbrill to buy some ammunition and supplies, and a new comb for Rotgut, who, she has to admit, surely earned a good grooming. Then she heads back out into the Wasteland, back to her lightning-struck bonewood tree. She pulls Rotgut's tack off and gives her a thorough combing, working the tangles from her mane and picking grit from between the sharp toes of her hooves.

The Wastebred goes to wander around the bonewood tree while Buckshot takes her usual seat under the tree, back against the trunk, bolt-action on the ground by her leg. She plucks an apple from her travel bag and picks the stem out of it before biting into it.  
  
She watches the sun go low behind the miasma. It's close to sundown when she hears Rotgut's curious rumble and turns in time to see a tuft of hair on the end of a long tail snake back down into the earth some yards away from the bonewood tree. Buckshot gets to her feet and approaches the spot with the rifle only half-ready, because – honestly, she already kind of knows.

There's a big hole in the loose red soil, big enough for some monster-imperial-whatever-it-is to climb through for sure. Beside the hole is a fresh-killed trunker, red blood running freely from the place where its throat used to be.

Buckshot has to laugh at that. She _has_ to. She hunkers down to stare into the hole, then cups one hand around her mouth to loose a shout.

“ _Congrats on breakin' the graverobbin' habit, ya gross old bastard!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [tumblr](http://rifter-pride.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
